


Closed Position

by Eienvine



Category: Thor (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Ballroom Dancing, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-30
Updated: 2018-10-30
Packaged: 2019-08-09 23:12:20
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,539
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16458848
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Eienvine/pseuds/Eienvine
Summary: Three weeks before one of the biggest competitions of the year, both Loki and Sif find themselves without partners, thanks to bad luck and Thor’s new crush. Maybe they’re each what the other needs. Ballroom dance AU.





	Closed Position

**Author's Note:**

> This was prompted by me watching Baby Ballroom on Netflix (I give it 3.5 stars out of 5), but was actually much more influenced by the movie Strictly Ballroom. If you've seen that movie, you may recognize some references; if you haven't seen that movie, why are you wasting your time on this story when you could be getting acquainted with the greatest movie ever made? Get thee to Netflix and rectify that situation immediately.
> 
> Outside a class in the seventh grade I have never done any ballroom dancing, although I have friends and family who've danced competitively, so I have no doubt I have gotten some things wrong. If any of you know better, I apologize.

. . . . . .

Loki had expected to have the studio to himself, so it’s quite a surprise to see Thor’s car pulling away as he pulls up. Thor and Sif don’t usually practice after about nine, so maybe he wasn’t at the studio, but at the apartment behind the studio, where Sif lives with her father Tyr; maybe Thor being over this late was . . . social. And Loki has to fight down the hot sick feeling in his chest at the idea.

But the feeling is replaced by worry when he walks into the studio and sees Sif standing in the middle of the floor with her dance bag over her shoulder, her hands clenched into fists and her face a mask of fury. Most people would turn around and leave at this point—Sif Tyrsdottir’s temper is a fearsome thing—but not Loki; Sif has been Thor’s partner since they were ten, and after eleven years of classes and competitions and birthday parties and movie nights, she’s practically family.

( _You certainly don’t think about her the way you think about family_ , points out some impish part of his brain, which he determinedly ignores.)

So he knows Sif well enough that he doesn’t even consider retreating. “What’s wrong?”

Sif finally notices she has company, and her expression softens a little when she sees who it is, and Loki tries hard not to read anything into that. “Your brother—” She bites off the word with such vitriol that Loki is tempted to point out that it’s not a biological relationship— “wants to take a break.”

That’s unexpected. “From . . . dancing?”

“From me.” Her shoulders tense even further, which he didn’t think possible. “From our partnership. He’s decided he wants to try dancing with Jane for a while.”

This is so bizarre and unexpected that he can’t wrap his head around it for a minute. “Jane . . . Foster? From the beginning Latin class?” It can’t be—but Sif nods. Jane Foster! What on earth? Loki’s seen her dance when he’s helped out with the beginner classes at the studio, and she’s got potential, that’s for sure—good sense of rhythm, great body flight, and she picks up new steps quickly—but she’s no Sif Tyrsdottir. And she’s no match for Thor Odinson, who, with Sif, is a four-time national Latin champion. “And he wants to start dancing with her now? Three weeks before the Asgard Grand Prix?”

Sif shrugs, her lips pressed into a tight line. “He wants to spend more time with her.”

Loki blinks—and then he understands. Come to think of it, he has noticed Thor hanging around the studio before or after the beginning Latin class, and he has noticed his brother chatting with Jane. But he’d never imagined it indicated romantic interest—after all, aren’t Thor and Sif . . . something? Neither has ever said as much, but he’s always assumed . . .

He steals another glance at Sif, but it’s hard to tell if her anger is a result of having her partner dump her right before the second-biggest competition of the year, or if it’s a little more personal.

“What an idiot,” says Loki. “I mean, he's always been an idiot, but this . . . Father’s going to be furious.” He hesitates, and then he grins. “Actually, it might be nice to have him be disappointed in Thor, for once.” He can just hear his father’s voice: _after all the time we spent driving you to classes and competitions, after all the money we spent on lessons and shoes . . ._

Because Thor has been groomed to be a national champion, and giving that up because he’s got a crush on some girl . . .

But also, in a way it doesn’t surprise Loki. Thor has never truly loved the dancing itself, the way Loki and Sif do; he just likes to win. Frigga enrolled her boys in ballroom classes when they each turned ten, and it immediately became clear that Thor had an unmatched natural aptitude for it. So Tyr, who runs the studio, paired the new boy with his own daughter, Sif, who’d been dancing since the age of six and was a prodigy in her own right, and the couple’s rise to the top was immediate and dazzling. But for Thor, it’s never been about the dancing; he just likes being good at things. He likes winning, and being praised, and earning trophies. So now that he’s accomplished his goals and reached the top of his game—now that there’s an entire room in their house dedicated to Thor’s trophies, now that the whole ballroom community agrees that Thor Odinson is a champion—it’s actually not that surprising that Thor would grow bored, and be willing to let everything drop just to go chasing after a cute girl.

Loki thinks all this, and tries not to be jealous. When he started lessons a year after Thor, he was not immediately praised as a prodigy, the way his brother was; he’s nimble and graceful, and judges always praise his musicality, but it doesn’t come to him as easily as it does to Thor. He’s had to fight and claw and sweat for his skill and his victories. Which is why it frustrates him so much to see that Thor can so easily toss all of this aside.

And he’s frustrated because honestly, as soon as Thor gets past this Jane phase and decides to be a real contender again, everything will probably just fall back into place for him. Things always work out for Thor.

“So what will you do now?” Loki asks.

Sif’s brow furrows. “Get your parents, or my dad, to talk him out of it? Or find a new partner, I guess. Three weeks isn’t much time to practice, but I don’t want to miss the Grand Prix.”

And that’s when Loki has an idea. A crazy, amazing idea.

“Well,” he says, fighting with every fiber of his being to sound casual, “if you start holding try-outs for new partners, save a slot for me.”

Sif blinks. “But I thought—that red-headed girl—”

“Fell through,” he shrugs. “She decided she didn’t like having to drive all the way from Nornheim to practice with me.”

“I’m sorry,” says Sif sincerely, because she’s a good person like that.

Loki isn’t sorry. Karnilla was a stopgap measure, the least bad of a pile of bad options, that he’d agreed to only so he’d have someone to compete with at the Grand Prix. He hadn’t been particularly sorry when she called this morning to inform him of her decision.

Which leaves him open for a new partner. A partner like—

Loki’s always wondered if he’d do better in Latin with a really great partner. He’s never done as well there as in the Standard: yet another way he’s not like Thor. Thor’s made for Latin: he oozes masculinity in the rumba; his athleticism means he dances the most high-octane jive you’ve ever seen; his commanding presence and strength make him one of the most highly regarded paso doble dancers in the nation. With Sif as his partner, no one else has a chance.

Loki’s always excelled more in Standard. He’s got the grace, the aristocratic bearing, the quick and delicate footwork, to really make the Viennese waltz and the quickstep shine. But even here, Thor and Sif are incandescent; even though his Standard dances aren’t as strong as his Latin, Thor still gives Loki a run for his money at most competitions. Most weekends end in Thor taking home first place for Latin while Loki gets fifth or sixth, and they switch off who wins Standard.

And Loki’s not pointing fingers at Sigyn, who was an extraordinary partner from the time they were thirteen until health problems forced her to give up dancing two months ago. She’s the best Viennese waltz-er he knows, and a dear friend. But she never had the right personality for Latin (not to mention, she didn’t like the Latin dances much, and it showed). Her ethereal formality suited Standard, but could never match up to Sif’s fire in Latin.

So, he’s just saying, maybe with Sif as a partner . . .

Sif is giving him a thoughtful look, tinged with something he can’t quite get a handle on. “So you’re on the market,” she says.

He shrugs awkwardly, suddenly convinced that she’s going to laugh in his face for thinking he’s anywhere near her level, for presuming to think he can approach four-time national Latin champion Sif Tyrsdottir when he’ll never have the natural charm and talent of Thor—

Sif drops her bag on a chair. “Pull up some music.”

Loki blinks.

“We’ll have to try out for Dad tomorrow, but we might as well give it a try now.” She’s rummaging in her bag for her shoes, but she looks up to give him a quick, encouraging smile. “Let me see what you’ve got, Odinson.”

“You’re sure?”

“Yeah. Even without this Thor thing, I’d love to see what you can do these days. I’ve always really admired you as a dancer. But I never get to see you dance anymore since we’re both always so busy, and we’re usually dancing against each other at competitions.”

If Loki died right now, he’d die happy.

He practically trips over himself in his rush to plug his phone into the stereo system. The song still paused on Spotify is one he uses for the foxtrot; that’s as good a place to start as any. He hits play and pulls off his jacket as Sif strides forward to meet him, her arms coming up for a standard hold.

“I can’t remember the last time we danced together,” Sif says with a quiet smile, her bad mood from earlier all but gone, as Loki takes her raised hand in his and puts his other hand on her back.

Loki can. It was the social dance at the Vanaheim Invitational, when he was fifteen and she was sixteen, and for once Loki managed to ask Sif to dance before anyone else did. They did the cha cha; she wore a blue dress and her dark hair gleamed in the lights and he’d never danced the cha cha as well as he did that night.

Not that he’s spent the last five years obsessing over that dance or anything.

The music comes back around and they step out into the foxtrot.

After two months with Karnilla he’s forgotten what it’s like to dance with an expert, whose footwork and form are flawless and unerring, who responds to the slightest pressure as he leads her through the steps. It’s a true delight, the sort of pleasure he’d nearly forgotten about after Sigyn’s retirement.

(To say nothing of how it feels to have Sif in his arms; it requires all his willpower and training to pay attention to the dancing, not the woman pressed close to him.)

And they look good together, he can see when he catches sight of them in the mirrors that line the studio. Physically, they’re a good match, in terms of height and build. And coloring! She refuses to wear fake tanner; in fact she’s known for it. So she’s always got this luminously pale skin, shining on the dance floor, but it works because her hair is so dark (if Sigyn tried it, with her white blonde hair, her face would just vanish entirely). He’s equally pale, and equally dark-haired, and together they are incredibly striking. He can just see them in competition now: put her in something blood red with matching lipstick, him in black . . .

After a foxtrot that’s quite slick, considering they’ve never danced one together before, it’s a tango, then a waltz, and then, in an echo of that social dance all those years ago, a cha cha. They say nothing, simply reacting to the new songs that come up on shuffle on Loki’s phone. The lights are low in the studio; the world outside is black and silent; they are the only two people in the world. She is warm and strong (and distractingly close); he’s never known what it’s like to have her characteristic laser-like focus concentrated entirely on him. They complement each other; he elevates her Standard dancing, she elevates his Latin. And with her following his lead, he’s never danced so well, or enjoyed dancing so much.

Even if nothing comes of this little try-out, it’s still been the best twenty minutes of his life.

And he thinks—maybe—Sif is enjoying it too. She keeps giving him these kind of surprised looks, and he knows her well enough to read the hint of pleasure and joy in them. And when they execute a particularly difficult figure well, she grins.

And when the cha cha ends with her pulled up close to his chest, their faces only inches apart . . . well, he can’t make sense of her expression then. But it doesn’t seem unhappy.

They hold that position for a little longer than is normal. Loki knows his reason—he’s never been this close to her before and might never be again, so he’s going to enjoy it until she moves away—but he’s less certain about her reasons. All he knows is, they hold that position in the gap between songs, and it stretches out for a lifetime.

The song that starts next is one he uses to practice the rumba. And when Sif steps back, her hand trailing slowly down his arm until she can take his hand in hers . . . well, it’s just really astonishingly easy for him to get into the right headspace for this sensual, romantic dance.

And wow, what a rumba. He’s never really understood the appeal in the dance before; it’s slow and languid, with less emphasis on the precise, quick footwork that is his forte. But dancing it with Sif is something else altogether. One moment her body is impossibly long and sinuous, leaving him unable to keep his eyes off her; the next moment she’s impossibly close to him, her body pressed to his, and he’s trying to remember how to do basic steps.

“The rumba is the dance of love!” he remembers Tyr telling a thirteen-year-old Loki. “Look at her like you’re in love with her!”

With Sigyn, that was always an act. With Sif, the trick is keeping her from seeing just how real it is.

But he manages fairly well—until Sif apparently decides to add a bit more spice to a certain step, and moves in so close that her nose brushes his, and he can feel her breath on his lips. And then his brain short circuits and he just stops dancing.

Sif, consummate professional that she is, follows his lead and stops as well, and they stand there with her arm draped around his neck, his hand steady on her side, and her breath on his lips driving him mad, as the music plays unheeded.

He should—he should move. He should keep dancing, or step away—

One of them moves first; he’s honestly not sure who. All he knows is that suddenly her lips are against his and that he’s never been so ready to dive into a kiss before.

But also, crap—is this a serious kiss? Or is this still somehow part of the rumba—

He is no longer able to care. He can do nothing but surrender to the low lighting, the soft sensuous music, and the best kiss of his life.

And she’s bringing her other arm up to wrap around him—she’s definitely kissing him back—this is not just his doing. She’s definitely kissing him, or maybe this is a dream, or maybe he’s dead—

He just pulls her closer and figures, who knows if he’ll ever get to do this again, might as well make it count.

But maybe he will get to do it again, because when the kiss ends, Sif grins and admits, “I’ve wanted to do that for a while now.”

And dazed wonder leads to embarrassing honesty, apparently, because Loki responds, “I’ve _always_ wanted to do that.”

She grins again.

Until a voice says from behind them, “I was hoping you’d wait until next year.” They both jump about a mile in the air and turn to see Tyr standing in the doorway, grinning at them. “Now I owe Frigga fifty bucks. I thought it’d take longer for you two to do something.”

“Dad!” says Sif, sounding scandalized. Loki is not surprised that she unwinds her arms from around his neck—that’s not something you really want your father to see—but he _is_ very surprised, and quite pleased, that she doesn’t move far, and takes his hand in hers.

Oh, wow, what is happening to reality, in what version of The Life of Loki Odinson does Sif Tyrsdottir kiss him, or willingly hold his hand?

“How long have you been standing there?” Sif demands.

“A while,” Tyr grins. “Don’t worry, I went to the front desk while you two were . . . busy.” He waggles his eyebrows suggestively.

Oh good, Tyr is totally going to make this weird, isn’t he?

“Did you need something?” Loki asks awkwardly, pleased that at least Tyr doesn’t seem upset. And in fact was apparently placing bets on this outcome. That’s a good sign, right?

“Your mother called me,” Tyr explains. “Told me what Thor decided to do. Kid’s gonna get a talking to when I see him next. Anyway, I came up here to see if Sif’s doing okay, and . . .” Another eyebrow waggle. “I guess she is.”

“Dad!”

“Anyway, honey, I wanted to ask how you want to proceed—if you think it’s worth it to try to find you a new partner before Asgard. But I caught a couple minutes of you two dancing.” He looks quite pleased as he looks from Loki to Sif and back again. “And maybe we don’t need to look any further than this. Because you need a partner too, right, Loki? And this—” He gestures between them. “I think there’s really something here.”

And Sif grins, and looks over at Loki, and squeezes his hand, and Loki can’t believe that his life has changed so drastically in the last half hour. “Yeah, I think there’s something here.”

. . . . . .

Three weeks later, Loki and Sif take first in both Latin and Standard at the Asgard Grand Prix. Turns out Loki was right: he does pretty well in Latin when he has the right partner. And though the lack of time they had to prepare made things a little stressful, the fact that they’ve been as close as siblings for the last decade helps them get their choreography polished quickly—which is reflected in the awards ceremony.

Thor’s immense talent carries him and Jane through to the Latin semifinals, which is much further than anyone expected, but they get cut after the first round in Standard. Thor doesn’t care at all, cheerfully declaring to Loki that this is the most fun he’s had at a competition in ages.

Odin, as expected, is still furious with Thor, but Thor’s always had a knack for letting unpleasant things just roll off him like water off a duck’s back. “I was getting bored,” he tells his father cheerfully. “I was at the top of my game! There was nowhere else to go! But this, this is a new challenge. Besides, me and Jane are thinking of getting into cabaret. Something with a lot of lifts. I think that would suit us.”

And Loki thinks of tiny Jane and absurdly strong Thor and thinks that he’s right—he and Jane could do some amazing lifts. And knowing Thor, they’ll probably dominate the category inside of a year.

Thor seems to be thinking along the same lines. “So, you know, new worlds to conquer! Sounds like fun.”

Odin is not convinced. But Loki smiles his support at Thor, who seems much more bearable now that he is not a rival for Sif’s affections or first prize trophies. Thor is happier than Loki’s seen him in a while, and seems in no way bothered that Loki is now likely to dethrone him in Latin and Standard.

“So if Thor sticks with Jane,” Loki says carefully to Sif that night, as he helps her shove her many dress bags and makeup kits into her car, “are we . . .”

“I hope so,” says Sif as she forces the door shut and turns to look at him. “I mean, I think we make a pretty great team, don’t you?”

“I’d say so,” Loki says, and reaches out one finger to touch the medal hanging around her neck, feeling enormously bold in doing so, despite the fact that Sif has been kissing him quite a lot over the last few weeks.

“Besides,” she teases with a sly smile, “I’ve now seen up close how you dance the rumba. I might get jealous if you started dancing it that way with another girl.”

“I don’t think I could,” he says honestly. “I’ve only ever danced it like that with you.”

“Good,” she says, and slides her arms around his neck. “So, all the way to nationals?”

“All the way to nationals,” he agrees, and leans down to kiss her.

. . . . . .


End file.
